


Fic: Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "The Morning After Job," Eliot and Nate talk about what going after Damien Moreau really means for the team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends

Eliot let himself into the rear of McRory’s and made his way carefully through the darkened poker room toward the main bar, desperately in need of a drink. He’d just gotten his first good look at the apartment, and the damage done to it by the shooter, and had a knot the size of Texas in his stomach. Nate and Sophie had been in the middle of _that_ , pinned down while a fucking _assassin_ had shot the hell out of the place, and he hadn’t been able to do a goddamned thing to help them.

He’d been too busy fighting off The Italian’s hired cops.

 He felt another hot surge of anger at the bitch who’d brought this upon them. She’d been a shadow hovering over them for months, forcing them to do her dirty work, but this time she’d gone too far. Nate and Sophie could have been _killed_. She might have denied hiring the sniper to Nate, but Eliot knew better. He knew her type, had worked for her type, had more than once been that “outside contractor” brought in to make a dark and nasty point. Oh, yeah, he knew.

 And it scared him more than he could say.

 Because while all this was so familiar to him – this _was_ his world, after all – it was entirely new to the rest of the team. They were thieves, not killers, stole art and jewels, hacked into banks and robbed museums. They had no experience at all with the likes of The Italian or Damian Moreau and the dark and bloody world they inhabited. They were out of their element, operating under rules they didn’t understand, vulnerable to dangers they couldn’t even imagine.

 And today had been a shocking reminder that he might not always be able to protect them.

 Oh, fuck yeah, he needed a drink.

 But as he entered the main taproom, he stopped short, realizing he wasn’t alone. Nate stood behind the bar, whiskey bottle in hand and a full glass before him. Eliot couldn’t exactly say he was surprised to see the man – this was a bar, that was Nate; the two were, by now, inseparable – but he had hoped he might have a little time, a little space, to himself to sort through everything that had happened today and try to figure out what shit might be headed their way tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after _that_ , until they somehow managed to get out of this mess with Moreau.

 Though, really, he had a fairly simple, if not particularly pleasant, solution …

 Nate looked up from his whiskey, noticing the man hovering in the doorway between the poker room and the bar, and waved him over. As Eliot just stood there, apparently trying to decide whether he wanted company just now, Nate decided to offer a bit of incentive and asked, “Beer or whiskey?”

 Eliot sighed and shook his head, irritated with himself for not having done a better job of scoping out his surroundings. Either he was slipping, or this day had affected him even more than he’d thought. Neither was a comforting notion. But he couldn't very well just turn around and walk out now. Nate was waiting, watching. And they really did need to talk. “Both,” he answered at last, glancing around for any more surprises as he started toward the bar.

 Nate retrieved a pint glass from under the bar and began to draw a beer, watching Eliot all the while. The hitter was tense and wary, his muscular frame taut, his narrowed blue gaze sweeping carefully about the room, searching corners and shadows for any potential threat. He’d removed the fake SWAT vest – at least, Nate had assumed the vests were fake, though he could never be certain with this bunch – from earlier and had freed his long hair from its restrictive ponytail, but still wore the black shirt, pants and boots that lent him the tactical and predatory look Nate remembered from the times he’d encountered the retrieval specialist at work. Eliot’s instincts were clearly on high alert, just one more sign of how badly this day had gone.

 And a warning of how much worse things were likely to get …

 “So,” he asked hesitantly, not entirely certain he wanted an answer, “before you and Hardison, eh, ‘retired’ from the force, I don’t suppose you heard anything more about our shooter?”

 Eliot sank wearily onto a bar stool. “Nothin’,” he sighed. “He just ghosted away. Dude’s a real pro.”

 Nate couldn’t decide whether to be reassured or worried by that. On the one hand, having such a professional shoot at him _and miss_ might very well mean he was never really a target at all. On the other hand, well, having a professional shooting at him at all could never be a good thing.    
  
 And it certainly had done nothing for his team's nerves …  


 “Sophie just left,” he said quietly, setting the beer before Eliot and reaching for a whiskey glass. “She’s still pretty shaken up. She mentioned something about a date with a hot bath and a bottle of wine.” He filled the glass and set it beside the beer. “How are Hardison and Parker?”

 Eliot shrugged tiredly. “How should they be? I mean, Hardison’s pissed, and worried, but he seems okay. He’s keeping himself busy checking all the camera feeds around the building, seeing if he can pick up anything the cops missed. Parker–” He snorted and shook his head. “Who the hell knows what goes on in her mind?”

 “And you?” Nate asked quietly, already seeing his answer in the lines of weariness etched into Eliot’s face and the shadows darkening his eyes.

 Eliot bowed his head and reached for his beer, but did nothing more than turn the glass slowly on the bar. “What do you want me to say?” he asked softly, carefully avoiding Nate’s probing gaze. “Somebody’s hired assassin shot the hell out of our offices. Came damn close to shootin’ you and Sophie, too. That–”

 “And Vector,” Nate pointed out, reaching for his glass and raising it. “Don’t forget about Vector.”

 “Fuck Vector!” Eliot spat, lifting his head sharply and glaring at Nate. “He ain’t my concern. You and the team are. And I don’t like findin’ out the hard way that we’ve all got targets painted on our backs!”

 Nate drained his whiskey in one drink, then set the empty glass down and settled a cool gaze on the man across from him. “But that’s nothing new for you,” he said, purposely missing Eliot's point. “How many countries is it now?”

 Eliot scowled and leaned forward abruptly, pinning Nate with his stare. “Yeah, I’m used to it,” he admitted in a low, hard voice, “but the rest of you aren’t. And if it’s my job to look out for y’all, then, goddamn it, Nate, I need to know what’s goin’ on! You keep sayin’ we’re bein’ blackmailed by that bitch, but there’s a little more to it than that, isn’t there?” He saw the faint twitch at one corner of Nate’s mouth and swore foully as his suspicion was confirmed. “She’s threatenin’ us.”

 Nate winced and ran a hand through his hair. “She– It’s–”

 “ _She’s. Threatenin’. Us_ ,” Eliot repeated through clenched teeth, each word a distinct growl. “And you didn’t bother to tell us.”

 Nate sighed resignedly, knowing there was no way he could answer truthfully without incurring the hitter’s anger. “Eliot–”

 “ _Damn it, Nate!_ ” he exploded, shooting off the stool and slamming his fists against the bar, knocking over his whiskey, his face a tight mask of rage. For a moment, it was all he could do to hold himself back, to keep from vaulting over the bar and battering Nate to a pulp, to release two years of frustration and aggravation in the most effective way he knew. But only for a moment. Spitting out another curse, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked away, pacing about the room like a caged tiger, clenching and unclenching his hands and gritting his teeth until his jaws ached.

 Goddamn it, how many times did they have to go through this? How many times would Nate let things go completely to shit before telling them the truth?

 Nate felt a ripple of uneasiness as he watched Eliot pace, suddenly regretting not having told the team the _whole_ truth. He’d thought the vague threat of “blackmail” – and God knew there was plenty to use against each of them – would be enough to persuade them that it was in their best interests to agree to The Italian’s terms. Telling them the _exact_ terms of that blackmail – “Do what she says or she’ll have you all killed” – had seemed a bit too much like forcing them, which, frankly, they just never took well. As Eliot was now proving. Of course, had he told them the whole truth at the outset, Eliot would only have been pissed at The Italian, and wouldn’t now be fighting the urge to beat Nate to a bloody pulp. Which Nate found distinctly unsettling. So, for once, he did nothing, said nothing, to further provoke Eliot, and further endanger himself, but kept his mouth shut and waited while Eliot waged the battle to control himself.

 Even his self-destructive bent only went so far.

 After long, long minutes, Eliot stopped pacing and turned to Nate, fixing blazing eyes upon him. “So, lemme get this straight,” he rasped through still-clenched teeth, anger coursing though him in hard, hot waves. “If we don’t do what she wants, she’s gonna throw your ass in some Italian dungeon, but she’s gonna _kill_ the rest of us, right? Because … what? You might come in handy some day, but _we’re_ fuckin’ _disposable_?”

 Nate chose his next words carefully, knowing Eliot still had his temper on a thin leash at best. “That’s the gist of it, yes,” he said slowly, quietly, meeting Eliot’s hot stare evenly and willing some measure of calm into the younger man. “Maybe she thinks the threat of my having to watch the four of you die is more powerful than any threat to my own life. If so,” he shrugged slightly, “she is not mistaken. I meant what I said to all of you back on that ship, before I gave myself up to Sterling. Hell, that’s _why_ I gave myself up. And that presents her with … a certain amount of leverage.” He arched a brow and stared pointedly at the hitter. “You should know this, Eliot. It’s tactics – understanding and being willing to exploit a weakness.”

 Eliot _did_ know it, had done it more than a few times himself. But–

 “That’s different,” he breathed, feeling something in him twisting painfully at the realization. “That was always business, the job. This? It’s … personal. It’s–”

 “It’s family,” Nate finished for him quietly, watching as the anger drained from him. He bent and reached under the bar for a rag, then straightened and began wiping up the spilled whiskey. “It’s a bitch when that happens, isn’t it?” he asked sympathetically, knowing only too well what the hitter was feeling. He’d gone to prison for that feeling. “But, as difficult as it might be, I need for it to be business with you again. At least for now. This is your world, Eliot, not mine. And … I’m a little out of my element.” He winced at the admission, but knew pride would do him no good just now. “I need you to walk me through this. You’re the professional here.”

 Eliot stared hard at him, looking for any trace of mockery, of insincerity, and finding none. Instead, all he saw was Nate, more at a loss than the man liked to be, more shaken up by the events of this day than he would ever admit. At any other time, Eliot might have felt a deep satisfaction at the sight of Nate off-balance, but not now. The ground they were treading on was too treacherous, the outcome if they failed too terrifying. This wasn’t Sterling they were trying to beat, not Interpol or the FBI or some greedy bloodsucker of a CEO. This was Damian Moreau, and any mistakes would be fatal.

 He sighed heavily and returned to the bar, dropping once more onto the stool. He was still angry at Nate, at the man’s stubborn inability to share details with them, _especially_ the most important ones, but knew he couldn’t afford to let that anger consume him. This was too important, too dangerous. And Nate was right. This _was_ his world.

 Which raised one very important question.

 He reached for his beer and drank slowly. Then, finally in control of himself, he set the glass down and fixed measuring eyes on Nate. “How far are you willin’ to go with this?”

 Nate blinked and frowned, confused by the question. In a moment, though, understanding dawned and he stood up straight, shaking his head. “Oh, no,” he said firmly. “We’re not–”

 “We may not have a choice, Nate,” Eliot countered. “This is Damian Moreau we’re talkin’ about. He won’t go down without a fight.”

 Nate stared at him in stunned silence, appalled that he could even suggest such a thing. They weren’t killers, weren’t assassins; they didn’t _take out_ marks, they took them _down_. It was a huge difference, a deep, stark line he’d drawn in his mind and never once considered crossing. Not even with Ian Blackpoole.

 “No,” he insisted. “That’s not what we do.”

 “And this ain’t our usual kind of job!” Eliot snapped, hating The Italian all the more for getting them into this. He knew this road, had traveled down it more times than he could count and knew only too well where it led. And it sickened him to think that the team, his _family_ , might end up in that black and soul-killing place. Might end up like _him_. “This is _Damian Moreau_ we’re talkin’ about here!” he said harshly, tapping a forefinger against the bar. “There’s not a law enforcement agency in the world that can touch him, and he’s got entire _governments_ in his pocket. He’s fuckin’ _Caesar_! And it’s gonna take more than some little con game to take him down!”

 “I know,” Nate admitted quietly, still not at all certain how they were supposed to bring down a man no one else had been able to touch. “I know he’s way out of our usual league, and if it weren’t for The Italian, we wouldn’t be doing this at all. But we don’t have a choice, Eliot, not any more. She made that clear when she hired that sniper. We can either do it with her or do it on our own, but, one way or another, we have to take down Moreau. But we’re going to do it _our_ way and not–”

 “My way?” Eliot finished for him.

 Nate swallowed hard and dropped his gaze to the bar top, suddenly uneasy. Sometimes he actually forgot what the younger man was, or had been, forgot that “retrieval specialist” and “hitter” were vague and comfortable euphemisms for what Eliot Spencer _really_ did. Forgot who had trained him to do those things and why. But there were reasons Eliot could identify so many kinds of weapons just from their sounds, reasons he could identify who had been with which military or intelligence organization by the smallest of clues, reasons the man could speak languages from the most unsettled parts of the world, reasons even Alec Hardison couldn’t find _all_ the files on him. He wasn’t on all those “wanted dead or alive – preferably dead” lists because he could punch the hell out of people.

 In another time, Eliot Spencer would have been the man Nate had to go through to get to Moreau.

 He reached for the whiskey bottle with a slightly unsteady hand and refilled Eliot’s empty glass, still avoiding those cold and unsettling blue eyes. “I was going to say _their_ way,” he said at last, desperately drawing a line between _Eliot_ and _them_ in his mind.

 Because Eliot _wasn’t_ one of them any more. And never would be again if Nate had anything to say about it.

 Eliot sighed and shook his head slowly, sensing the direction of Nate’s thoughts and wondering how long the man would be able to maintain his denials. He knew Nate had a stubborn streak fully equal to his own, knew he also, despite everything he’d endured and his own sometimes crippling weaknesses, had an idealistic bent that happily gave the finger to reality.

 This time, however, reality might just refuse to bend itself to Nate Ford’s considerable will.

 “Nate–”

 “No,” he interrupted sharply, lifting his head and snaring Eliot’s gaze with his own. “That’s not what we do, it’s not who we are. I’ve let The Italian manipulate us this far, but I have to draw the line somewhere, and this is it. We’ll do this, but we’ll do it _our_ way. I won’t sacrifice any of you just to bring down Moreau. He’s not worth it.”

 Eliot sighed again and bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. He _wanted_ to believe Nate, wanted to believe there was another way, _any_ other way, but his own experience told him otherwise. The stakes were too high here, the game too dangerous. Moreau hadn’t gotten to where he was by accident, and hadn't stayed there because he was lucky. And he wouldn't blink at adding five more bodies to what was an already staggering count.  


 “The bastard bankrolls terrorists,” he breathed. “He finances those butchers who blow up nightclubs and markets and subways.” He looked up at Nate, shadows again darkening his eyes. “You ever seen what happens when a car bomb goes off?”

 Nate swallowed and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have,” he said softly. “I would imagine it’s … not pleasant.”

 Eliot loosed a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl, the sound torn from deep within him. “ _Not pleasant_?” he rasped. With another strangled laugh, he thrust himself off the bar stool and turned his back to Nate, then grasped the hem of his shirts and jerked them up, exposing a fine webbing of white scars across his lower back. “Marja,” he said hoarsely. “Two groups fightin’ over control of the fuckin’ poppy fields. For the heroin trade. One minute, there was a market square, people, _kids_ ; the next, nothin’ but a black hole in the ground and the smell of burned flesh in the air. Took me three days to get my hearin’ back. Took the docs ten hours to pick all the metal and other shit outta my hide. And I was on the _outer edge_ of the goddamn blast.” He jerked his shirts down and turned back to Nate, but saw instead the scorched and shattered remnants of what had once been a village and people he had known. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice thick and shaking as the smell threatened to choke him again, “you could say it’s _not pleasant_. And that’s how Damian Moreau spends his money.”

 Nate watched as Eliot sat back down and snatched up his whiskey, draining it in one long, desperate drink, his face white, his eyes dark with anguish, his fingers tight around the glass. The man had once joked – Nate had assumed it was a joke – about only sleeping ninety minutes a day. Sometimes Nate wondered how he could sleep at all.

 Eliot struggled to get his nerves – and his memories – back under control, grateful when Nate poured him another shot. He hated using liquor as a crutch, but there were times he’d take comfort wherever he could get it. Like now.

 “I’m sorry,” Nate said softly, hurting for him. “Sometimes I forget–”

 “Lucky you,” Eliot whispered, closing his eyes and taking another drink. His punishment in this life was that he _couldn’t_ forget; not what he’d seen, not what he’d done.

 Nate sighed and raked a hand through his hair, then turned and walked out from behind the bar, making his way to the stool next to Eliot and settling himself down upon it, facing the younger man. “Look,” he said quietly, “I know it’s not gonna be easy, and I know we may have to make some … compromises. But you know we have to do this. If _anyone_ does, you do. You’ve worked for too many of the Moreaus and Italians of this world, you know what they are, the damage they do and the suffering they cause. If we can bring this bastard down–”

 “Then someone else will just take his place,” Eliot said flatly, staring down into his glass. “That’s how this works. When Caesar falls, the generals swarm to carve off parts of the empire for themselves, and then one of them rises to the top and takes it all back.” He grimaced and reached for the whiskey, refilling his glass. “Meanwhile, there’ll be lots of work for men like me as the players all go about knockin’ off rivals and tryin' to secure their pieces of the pie. Hell, I’d be able to name my own price.” And he drained the glass again.

 “Maybe you should lay off that stuff if you’re planning to drive home tonight,” Nate suggested, worried at seeing Eliot drink so much. “Hough’s Neck isn’t just around the corner, and I’d hate for you to drive into the bay.”

 Eliot turned and arched a brow at him. “ _You’re_ tellin’ _me_ to lay off the booze? That’s … pretty ballsy for a functioning alcoholic.”

 Nate smiled crookedly, knowing he deserved that. “I'm a control freak,” he joked. “I can’t help it. Of course, I’m also right.”

 Eliot sighed and pushed the glass away. “Yeah. Fucker.”

 Nate chuckled. “I can’t help it. You’ve met my father.”

 Eliot exhaled heavily, then set his elbows on the bar and rested his head in his hands, tired to his bones. “It would just be easier if you let me kill him,” he breathed. “Nobody else has to get involved, nobody else has to put themselves in danger. Hell, nobody else even has to _know_. You’d be safe. And everybody’s hands would be clean.”

 Nate knew he should probably be shocked at the suggestion, but wasn’t. He knew what Eliot Spencer was. He also knew what a huge step back killing Moreau, killing _anyone_ , would be for him now, and feared that if Eliot had to go down that dark path one more time, even for their sakes, he might never return. “Except yours,” he pointed out.

 Eliot gave a soft chuff of laughter and lifted his head to study his hands. “What’s one more stain?” he breathed, rubbing his fingers together as if able to feel the blood on them. “Hell, it ain't like they're ever gonna be clean again anyway.”

 Against his own natural inclinations, Nate reached out and laid a hand over Eliot’s, hiding the younger man’s fingers from view. “Then maybe we could just try not to add any more,” he said quietly. “When I said I wouldn’t sacrifice any of you to bring down Moreau, I meant it. And I won’t let any of you sacrifice yourselves, either.”

 Eliot turned his head to look at Nate. “That’s kinda my job, isn’t it?”

 Nate smiled slightly and moved his hand to Eliot’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “No. Your job is to protect us. And you can’t do that if you’re throwing yourself into the line of fire. Or haven’t you realized yet that’s why I keep pulling you back?” He let his hand fall away. “We don’t need you to destroy yourself for us, Eliot, we need you to help us destroy Moreau. You’re much more valuable to us alive than dead.”

 Eliot smirked tiredly. “Then you ain’t seen all the bounty offers yet.”

 Nate sighed. He’d seen enough of those offers to wonder how Eliot was still alive. And to appreciate anew just how very good the man was. “Let’s just hope Parker doesn’t see them,” he joked weakly. “She does love money.”

 Eliot snorted and shook his head at the thought of their little thief. “There’s somethin’ wrong with that girl,” he breathed. “Then again,” he sighed and combed a hand through his hair, “there’s somethin’ wrong with all of us.” He turned a disbelieving gaze on Nate. “We’re goin’ after Damian fuckin’ Moreau. You really need me to tell you just what an unbelievablybad idea this is? Because if we fuck this up, that Italian bitch will be the _least_ of our worries!”

 “We’ll figure it out, I promise,” Nate assured him, unwilling to consider any other option. He couldn’t; not with these stakes. “The Italian wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if she didn't think we could do it.” He shrugged. “If we fail, she goes down with us, and I just don’t see her risking her life on a less than sure thing.”

 “I should kill her, too,” Eliot growled, hating the woman who had put them in this position.

 “You’re not killing anybody,” Nate said with a forced patience, feeling more as if he were talking to Parker than Eliot. “Those days are over.” He stared at Eliot, his eyes boring into the other man’s. “We’ll get Moreau,” he said slowly, clearly, “but we won’t do it by sacrificing you. I’m just not willing to make that trade. We’ll find another way.” He winked. “It’s what we do.”

 Eliot stared at Nate, wishing he could share the man’s confidence. But he’d long ago quit believing in fairy tales, that victory always went to the just and that right always triumphed over might. In his experience, might had a nasty habit of kicking right’s ass.

 Still, it would be nice to be on right’s side for a change …

 “He won’t go down easy,” he warned, needing Nate to understand this. “And you won’t like some of the ‘compromises’ we’ll probably have to make.”

 Nate smiled bitterly. “So far, I haven’t found anything about this I _do_ like. But we’re in the game now, and we have to play the cards we’re dealt.”

 Eliot gave a small, wry smile of his own. “Unless we cheat and turn up some new ones.”

 Nate flinched and frowned deeply. “I don’t like the word ‘cheat,’” he protested. “It sounds so … dirty. Let’s just say I believe the deck is,” he cocked his head and grinned, “fluid.”

 Eliot snorted and shook his head, wondering how the hell the man did this. He _knew_ the odds were against them, knew they were beyond fucked if they failed, were probably fucked even if they succeeded … and somehow Nate had him believing they might have a chance. Against Damian fucking Moreau.

 Jesus, these people had ruined him.

 “Fine,” he sighed, feeling something tight and painful within him release, “we’ll try it your way. But only if you promise to tell me everything I need to know to do my job from now on.”

 Nate hesitated, fully aware of his own limitations. “Eliot–”

 “ _Everything_ ,” he growled, jabbing a hard forefinger into Nate’s chest. “I’m serious here, Nate. We can’t afford any more of your shit. Not with this. You promise me now, or, I swear to God, I’ll take him out myself, my way. And you won’t even know it happened ’til you read about in the paper.”

 Nate stared into those unrelenting blue eyes and knew he had no choice. Eliot would do it, no matter the cost. And the team would never forgive _him_ if he cost them Eliot.

 “I’ll try,” he said solemnly. “I promise, I’ll try.”

 Eliot sighed and let his hand fall, knowing that was the best he would get. And, for Nate, it was a huge concession. “I guess I can live with that,” he muttered.

 Not that he really had any choice …

 Nate smiled and spread his hands. “See? Compromise.”

 Eliot shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?” He winced and reached up, absently rubbing the back of his neck. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

 Nate nodded. “It’s been a hell of a day,” he mused, turning back to the bar and reaching for his whiskey. “I could have done without the sniper shooting up my place.”

 Eliot remembered the damage he’d seen and watched Nate as he drank. The man looked as tired as he felt. Hell, they were all getting worn around the edges, showing signs of strain. They’d been running at a breakneck pace for months, trying to meet The Italian’s deadline for bringing down Moreau while still trying to help any other clients they could. They needed a break, needed time to rest, time to think, to come up with a _real_ plan–

 Unfortunately, time was the one thing they didn’t have.

 He sighed and sat back on his stool, still studying Nate. “You got a place to stay tonight?” He gestured toward the ceiling with a thumb. “Gonna take us a while to get everything put back together up there.”

 Nate closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I hadn’t even thought about that,” he groaned.

 Eliot nodded, having suspected as much. For a man with such a clear view of the big picture, Nate had the stunning ability to ignore some pretty important details. “Yeah, well, even you need to sleep. And we can start fresh with all this shit tomorrow, try to figure out where we go from here.”

 “I need Hardison to get to work on those accounts–”

 “Tomorrow, Nate,” Eliot interrupted. He bowed his head and rubbed his eyes, starting to feel the effects of the whiskey. And this day. Hell, _all_ the days since The Italian had shoved her way into their lives. “We need rest.” He dropped his hand and raised his head, fixing weary eyes on Nate. “I got an extra room at my place,” he offered. “You can crash there.”

 Again Nate hesitated, then gave in and nodded, knowing there really was nothing more he, or any of them, could do tonight. “Sounds good. Just let me clean up here.”

 Eliot watched as Nate slid off the stool and walked back around to the other side of the bar, clearing away the bottle and their glasses. But his mind kept returning to Damian Moreau and the million and one problems that taking him down posed. The man was virtually untouchable, half shadow and half god, his power absolute. Like he’d said before, _Caesar_ , as well and as ruthlessly protected as any Roman emperor had ever been–

 “Hey.” Nate appeared at his side, the man’s hand falling again onto his shoulder. “We’ll think about it tomorrow. But for now,” he smiled slightly, his face lined and worn, “I think it’s time we called it a night.”

 Eliot sighed and rose from his stool. “Yeah, I guess so. I just–”

 “We’ll figure it out,” Nate said again, squeezing his shoulder and smiling. “And we’ll get him. I promise.”

 Eliot had no idea how they’d manage that, but, for now, he’d trust Nate. It was as good a plan as any. “Okay.”

 Nate nodded and patted Eliot’s shoulder, then turned away and started toward the door. “I do have to admit, though,” he said thoughtfully, “killing The Italian does sound pretty appealing. Wrong, and probably a bad idea, but appealing.” He opened the door and arched two brows, as if considering the possibilities. “Maybe we could let Parker play with her for a while.”

 Eliot laughed aloud as he moved past Nate and stepped out into the night first, instinctively shielding the man with his own body. Parker vs. The Italian. With tasers, forks and God knew what else. Probably all while The Italian dangled upside down from the edge of a _very_ high building. The idea had promise.

 And Nate Ford was a seriously twisted individual for suggesting it.

 Then again, they were all hopelessly bent.

 They were conmen and thieves, and they were going after Damian Moreau.

 And Eliot, who should know better, who _did_ know better, was actually beginning to think they might just have a chance–

 Fuckin’ hell. Turned out he still believed in fairy tales after all.

  _The End_

 


End file.
